The Better Woman (38 page)

Tim was talking about IVF now. He had been casual at first.

‘Don't worry, Sarah. If it comes to it we can go down the IVF route.'

In his mind, it must have ‘come to it' because he was talking about it a lot more often now.

Sarah resisted the idea.

Too invasive. Too contrived. If it can't happen naturally . . .

But he had counterarguments.

Why not try? We can handle a few blood tests and a short stay in hospital, can't we? Look at the success rate, Sarah!

Sarah understood where he was coming from. But there was one big problem: Tim didn't know the full facts. He didn't know about the abortion. He didn't know that she'd suffered bad cramping afterwards. Or that she hadn't gone back for her six-week check-up after the operation.

Sarah didn't want to go through with IVF for two reasons. First of all, she'd be obliged to tell the consulting doctor about the abortion and it was inevitable that Tim would find out too. He would be awfully, and justifiably, hurt and angry. He hated deceit of any form. Secondly, Tim aside, Sarah knew in her heart of hearts that IVF wouldn't work. She was sterile. She knew this fact instinctively and didn't need it confirmed by any doctor. Three years of trying to fall pregnant was proof enough. It was her punishment for aborting the baby. God didn't allow people to pick and chose when it was convenient to have children. She'd had her time. It wouldn't come again.

Sarah saw the lights change up ahead and edged her car
forward until she was just a whisker away from the bumper of the car in front.

Come on. Move! Move!

But the lights changed back to red without a single car getting through.

Damn! Damn! Damn!

She was trapped in this dreadful traffic. And trapped by a decision she'd made when she was too young and scared to understand how far-reaching its consequences would be.

In the end, the journey to Cork took close to four and a half hours. Sarah exited the main road and negotiated the narrow country roads before turning into the gravelled driveway of the farm. The sensor lights switched on and illuminated the way.

Tim came out the front door as she got out of the car. He wore a khaki T-shirt and shorts. His feet were bare and his face stubbled. She noted, in a tired way, that he looked good: trim, healthy and relaxed, but for the concerned expression on his face. Gently, he kissed her forehead and hugged her to him. Her anxiety abated with the familiar earthy smell of him and the cocoon provided by his arms.

‘The traffic was horrendous,' she told him.

‘I guessed as much.'

He kissed her forehead again before breaking away. Then he took her bag from the boot of the car. He always carried her bag in. Just as he always had a light supper ready on the table. Once she'd eaten, he would massage her tired shoulders while she lay face down on the lounge. Then he'd make love to her. It was Sarah's favourite part of the week: her homecoming.

Life on the farm started early, even on weekends. The first sounds were that of birds hopping along the roof tiles. Their feet
ran lightly along, not too disturbing at all, until they emitted an ear-piercing squawk on take-off.

Sarah cursed them and squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to wake up just yet. She lay curled into Tim's naked body. One of his hands loosely cupped her breast. She suspected he wasn't fully asleep either and soon that hand would start stroking her nipple. Or his lips would brush against the back of her neck. Or he'd do any one of the number of things he did to initiate their lovemaking. She felt anticipation stir within her, awakening her even more.

The commuting aside, her weekends with Tim were wonderful, a precious two days and three nights. Tim never complained that it wasn't enough. He understood how she felt about her job. With his support, her career had gone from strength to strength and she was now in charge of the entire Irish subsidiary. As general manager the breadth of her role ranged from internal finances to marketing strategies, and from staff initiatives to liaison with the New York head office. Denise, her old mentor, was now the CEO of the bank and in charge of worldwide operations. Sarah couldn't have asked for a better boss. The bank was growing aggressively and it was a thrill to be at the helm alongside Denise.

The only downside was that the day-to-day trading was no longer her direct responsibility. Sarah missed it and was often lured away from her office to the buzz of the trading floor. She'd nose out whatever big deals or calamities were going down and become directly involved for long enough to give her the adrenalin fix she needed, then she would return to her office and work with renewed vigour.

On the whole, she loved her job. And she loved her husband, whose hand had slipped from her breast and was provocatively
edging its way between her legs. Sarah was very sure that her anxiety would go away of its own accord if she could solve the two problems that were marring her happiness: finding a faster means of getting up and down to Cork, and conceiving a baby.

Sarah eventually went downstairs at nine. She opened the fridge. It was well stocked with dairy produce, fresh vegetables and meat. A local woman, Joanne, came two days a week to clean, do the laundry and buy groceries. With her help, Sarah was free to spend the entire weekend with Tim. She much preferred to be outside helping him with the animals or crops, than inside catching up on a week's worth of household chores.

Sarah drew out a carton of eggs from the fridge. She cracked four into a jug and whisked until they were smooth. She chopped up some spinach and leg ham and threw them into the mix. Tim loved her omelettes.

Breakfast was ready by the time he came downstairs.

‘Mmm,' he smacked his lips as he peered into the pan, ‘you spoil me.'

His dark hair glistened from the shower and his jaw was freshly shaved.

She kissed the lips that had kissed her all over only a little while before. ‘Don't think this would happen every day if I lived here full-time.'

He rummaged through the cutlery drawer and laid out the forks and knives on the table. Meanwhile, she took up the omelette and cut it in two, putting the larger piece on his plate. Once he'd poured chilled orange juice into two tall glasses, they were ready to eat.

‘Compliments to the chef,' he declared as he tasted the fluffy egg.

‘Thank you,' she smiled. ‘What's on the agenda today?'

She expected his response to entail a litany of chores: collecting eggs from the chicken pen, feeding the goats, administering medicine the vet had left for the cows, moving bales of hay from here to there.

An ominous pause preceded his reply. ‘Actually, I thought we might take the morning off and go into Cork . . .'

Sarah looked up in surprise, her fork midair. His face was difficult to read. ‘Why?'

‘Because we'll need a referral from our GP before seeing the IVF specialist.'

Sarah became aware that her hand, still holding a forkful of omelette for which she had totally lost appetite, had begun to tremble. She tightened her grip on the fork, steadied herself.

‘I haven't agreed to IVF, Tim,' she pointed out in a tone that was more forceful than she'd intended.

She saw his shoulders tense.

‘Are you saying a definitive no to it?' he asked, his own voice dangerously controlled.

‘No,' she assured him quickly. ‘I'm just not convinced it's the right way forward for us . . .'

He drew a ragged breath. ‘Can't you at least see the people at the clinic and discuss whatever concerns you have?'

He made it sound so reasonable. So simple. But then it was to him.

Frantically she tried to formulate a response in her head. Something that would sound just as reasonable.

‘Why are you resisting IVF so much?' He stared straight at her. ‘Why don't you want to try it? Is there something you're not telling me?'

There was no way she could avoid the issue. He knew she was holding something back. This was it: the time of reckoning. Yet,
the truth was choking in her throat. The abortion was something she'd held inside for fifteen years. It wasn't something she could just blurt out when put on the spot.

Tim saw her struggle and came to his own conclusion.

‘You don't really want a baby at all, do you?'

‘Of course I do.'

‘Oh, for God's sake, Sarah. It's as plain as day. A baby would mess up your career . . .'

‘That's not true!'

‘It
is
true.'

Tim pushed his plate away. He stood up, his face dark with rage. Normally he was even-tempered to a fault. Twice, maybe three times, she'd seen him lose his cool. Once at a careless poacher who had accidentally shot one of the farm dogs. Another time, when the tractor wouldn't start, he jumped off and kicked the wheel several times in frustration before laughing at himself.

But he had never so much as raised his voice to her. Many a Friday night she'd come home cranky from the terrible traffic and spoiling for a fight. He'd never rise to the bait. He'd absorb her biting remarks without retaliation. Eventually his calmness would calm her. He was a very peaceful man, much more suited to this life in the elements than the cutthroat banking world.

‘Please, Tim,' she beseeched him. ‘Please, sit down.'

He ignored her. His expression thunderous, he walked to the door where he pulled on his boots.

‘I can't believe you've been lying to me all along. I can't bear to look at you right now, I really can't . . .'

The slam of the door behind him was the last word of the conversation.

*

Sarah methodically signed the pile of outgoing letters on her desk while Linda, her secretary, looked on. Over the years her signature had condensed to a brief scrawl. It was required on all manner of documents in any one day. Her eyes were alert as she skimmed through the content of each letter. She spotted an error and put the document in question to one side.

‘You'll have to redo that one,' she said to Linda. ‘You forgot to put a full stop at the end of the second sentence.'

Sarah firmly believed that the bank's clients deserved the very best of service, right down to the absence of grammatical errors in written communications.

Finally, all the letters were signed and Linda departed. Sarah emitted an involuntary yawn. She was exhausted. She'd slept very badly last night. And the night before. And all the other nights since the fight with Tim.

Damn him
.

They'd hardly spoken for the remainder of the weekend. Tim had slept in one of the spare rooms: it seemed he was telling the truth when he'd said he couldn't bear to look at her. Sarah had returned to Dublin on the Sunday afternoon, seeing no point in staying another night if they weren't talking.

At the start, she'd felt terribly guilty about the bitter argument and thought the fault was all hers. But once she was away from Tim and back to her office, she saw things differently.

I have a right to say no to IVF. How dare he bully me into having a baby!

It seemed that there was a side to Tim she hadn't seen before now.

Go to the doctor and get a referral
.

Have IVF, get pregnant
.

Deliver my baby
.

Who did he think he was dealing with? A little wife who would do exactly as commanded?

Sarah's mouth tightened stubbornly and her shoulders straightened with resolve as she sat behind her desk.

I won't allow you to bully me, Tim Brennan. I haven't got to this level in my career without some backbone. A lot of backbone!

It was this defiant train of thought that made her decide to stay in Dublin the following weekend.

Time slowed without the rush to start the drive down to Cork. Sarah glanced at the miniature Waterford Crystal clock on her desk countless times: 10 am; 11.30 am; 12.05 pm. The day was crawling; an unfamiliar sensation for her.

Yet, despite the slow pace of the day, she dilly-dallied in the office until 10 pm. She even stopped to chat to the security guard on the way out.

‘Miserable evening, miss.'

‘I'm glad I have the car downstairs,' she smiled.

‘Not heading off to Cork at this hour, are you?'

Her mouth tightened. ‘No. Not this weekend. Goodnight, Frank.'

Frank was right: it was indeed a miserable evening. Rain streamed down the windscreen, making futile the wipers' attempts to flick it away. Traffic was heavy for the late hour but Sarah didn't feel the anxiousness she usually did when hindered by slow traffic. In fact, she hadn't felt anxious all week. Just increasingly angry.

She drove along the slick roads towards her apartment in Blackrock. The apartment was a recent addition to her ever-growing property portfolio. In a rundown condition when she'd first acquired it, the renovations had cost a small fortune and caused a lot of frustration. Now, to see the restored fireplace, the
smooth walls, the elegant velour sofa and armchair, Sarah was of the opinion that the costly builder and interior designer's fees had been worth every penny.

The rain didn't relent as she drove along the broad sweep of Dublin Bay. If anything, it intensified. She turned past the stately grounds of Blackrock College and, a short while later, she was home. The only downside of the apartment was that it didn't have off-street parking. Sarah turned off the ignition and reached across to the passenger seat for her black leather briefcase. Then she swung the car door open and ran as quickly as possible, her head bowed against the driving rain.

The phone was ringing as she unlocked the door of the ground-floor apartment. She shook the rain from her hair, ignoring the phone. It wouldn't be Emma or Nuala: they'd expect her to be at the farm. It would be Tim, wondering where she was. She wasn't ready to talk to him just yet. She'd call him back later on.

Sarah made herself a salad sandwich in the compact kitchen with its heavy white doors and polished wooden counter. The interior designer had thought it appropriate to restore the entire apartment, even the kitchen, in line with the period in which the property had been built. The result was a luxurious yet unique kitchen area. All the mod cons, like the fridge with its ice-making functions and the pull-out pantry, were hidden behind the old-style white doors. Everything was spotlessly clean. Just like Joanne down in Cork, a local woman came in here to clean and stock the apartment. With the salary and bonuses Sarah now earned, she could afford all kinds of hired help to make her life easier. However, tonight she wished that everything wasn't so perfect and she could busy herself with wiping down the counter, or washing the dishes, or doing some other mundane chore that might help take her mind off Tim.